


We All Fall Down

by FunkyinFishnet



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-13 09:52:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1221826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FunkyinFishnet/pseuds/FunkyinFishnet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>d’Artagnan is attacked for revenge in the cruelest way. Athos wishes to do all possible to help his friend, though feels woefully inadequate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We All Fall Down

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [bbcmusketeerskinkmeme](http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/) prompt: _D’Artagnan is raped by bad guys and Athos learns about it. Hurt/comfort._
> 
> The rape occurs before the story begins but is vaguely described, so may trigger some people.

 

 

It was late evening when the gate clattered open and d’Artagnan almost fell through it into the barrack yard. Athos took one look at him and immediately got to his feet, Aramis and Porthos only a moment behind him. d’Artagnan was wild-eyed, his shirt was severely torn, and his breeches were barely held up by loose laces. At any other time, Athos would have expected Aramis or Porthos to comment with amusement on their friend’s unexpectedly ragged appearance. But not now, not when the way that d’Artagnan was looking around the yard could only be described as shaken.

 

  
Athos had seen what d'Artagnan looked like after losing a fight, this was entirely different and yet there was something hauntingly familiar about the way d'Artagnan was wincing, and in how self-loathing flashed briefly across his face. With deep dread, Athos suddenly recalled the occasion several years ago when a visiting ambassador had committed certain acts within Paris's walls, Athos had been one of the Musketeers called to 'deal' with the situation. His memories curdled and a familiar cold fury began to make itself known instead, from the sound of Porthos' cursing and Aramis' stony silence, they had reached similar conclusions.

 

  
He walked slowly towards d'Artagnan who was visibly pulling himself together, something like his usual reckless confidence taking shape in his expression. But his hands still shook when he attempted to right the laces of his breeches. Something clenched hard in Athos's chest, especially when d'Artagnan noticed his friends' presence and startled in a way that he never usually did.

 

  
“You found trouble?”

 

  
Athos kept his tone light, providing d'Artagnan with another mask to use. d'Artagnan managed a weak smile, his posture convincing enough perhaps to any who did not know him well.

 

  
“Not the kind I would bring to Madame Bonacieux's door.”

 

  
“Whereas here, trouble is practically our business,” Aramis guessed, his voice not nearly as buoyant as usual.

 

  
d'Artagnan nodded, unable to look any of them in the eye. Athos took another step forward, his hands open, his fury bottled but roaring. Someone had caused this change in d'Artagnan. And when Athos discovered who...

 

  
“Does this trouble have a name?”

 

  
d'Artagnan paused, then focused on readjusting what was left of his shirt. His shrug fooled none of them, his behaviour nothing close to casual. Athos took another deliberate step forward and waited until d'Artagnan glanced up and saw the implacable expression that meant Athos was not going to accept such an answer.

 

  
d'Artagnan licked his split bottom lip before answering again, his voice quiet despite its forced lightness. “Étienne Bellaire, I don't think he accepted yesterday's defeat lightly.”

 

  
That was an answer Athos could accept. Étienne Bellaire was a gentleman in only the loosest sense of the word, a fact he had vividly demonstrated when Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan had broken up a street brawl that he had clearly been the cause of. Several children had been hurt in the affray due to Bellaire, but he had shown little remorse, choosing instead to behave dismissively and dishonourably towards the Musketeers who had restored order. His behaviour had only worsened after a riled d'Artagnan had commented on his character; in fact Bellaire had become so enraged that he had attacked d'Artagnan who had then rather easily beaten him first with the sword, then with bare fists. It had done Bellaire’s reputation no good at all.

 

  
Unlike most gentlemen, Bellaire had gone for a very base, and very effective, form of revenge, one that d'Artagnan was unlikely to forget.

 

  
Athos' fists tightened, he very much wanted to ensure that Bellaire received memorable repayment for such an act, but looking at d'Artagnan revealed a more important priority. So Athos glanced towards Porthos whose answering smile was a vicious promise. When Porthos reached the yard gates, d'Artagnan suddenly spoke again, still refusing to look at anyone.

 

  
“He wasn't alone.”

 

  
Porthos made sure that d'Artagnan saw his promise of a smile too, his voice soft when he replied. “Good.”

 

  
Athos allowed himself to smile a little too, despite the still-tight coils of his fury. Porthos would ensure that Bellaire saw the inside of a gaol by the end of the day, and that his comrades also paid for their part in d'Artagnan's humiliation. That would have to be enough for now.

 

  
Aramis stepped forward, though, like Athos, he allowed D'Artagnan his space. His eyes spoke of his rage, of how much he wished to take away d'Artagnan's pain. But what good were wishes or words now, when d'Artagnan could not even hold their gazes? There was another hard clench inside Athos' chest and his fingers shook for a moment.

 

  
Aramis touched his shoulder and then directed quiet words towards d'Artagnan. “Take advantage of the heated water here. I'll keep an eye on Porthos.”

 

  
Tugging on his hat, he exchanged a glance with Athos that said everything neither of them wanted to speak aloud before glancing briefly towards d'Artagnan, his eyes dimming as he beheld his friend. Then his jaw tensed and he spun on his heel, calling for a bridle, quickly now.

 

  
Athos tilted his head towards the staircase. “You can rest in my room, for Madame Bonacieux’s sake.”

 

  
It was an open-ended offer, Athos could share a room with Aramis or Porthos until d'Artagnan felt fit for company. Athos thought briefly, longingly, of the vast quantity of wine that he intended on consuming as soon as possible. But then d'Artagnan raised his head and properly looked at him, searching Athos's face for something. Athos stared steadily back, his heartbeat uncommonly loud in his mouth, until d'Artagnan nodded and began a slow walk towards and then up the staircase. Athos walked a step or two behind him, his eyes fixed on d'Artagnan, on how he held himself as he moved, on what parts of his body seemed stiff or pained. Athos's desire for the oblivion of wine was still overwhelmingly strong, but it was beaten by another desire, fury and hopelessness twisting in his chest.

 

  
Once d'Artagnan was inside Athos's room – sparse and littered with empty wine bottles – Athos indicated for him to take a seat and then made to leave to collect the suggested water. He paused in the doorway, struck by a thought.

 

  
“I can lock the door?”

 

  
d'Artagnan looked at him sharply but a moment later, nodded; his posture more crumpled now that he had privacy, his eyes wild again. Athos nodded in return, not wishing for d'Artagnan to feel under examination, and quickly left for the kitchen. Serge was preparing a stew of some kind but didn't question Athos' quest for a deep copper pan of heated water.

 

  
When Athos returned to his room, placing the pan on a sturdy dresser, d'Artagnan was as he had left him – uncharacteristically silent and hollow. Athos stepped into his line of vision and d'Artagnan met his gaze again. Something loosened just a touch in Athos's chest, it was a start.

 

  
“I can leave, d'Artagnan, if you desire solitude.”

 

  
The silence was fraught and d'Artagnan's gaze lowered for a moment, to his still trembling hands, but he shook his head quickly, almost a twitch. Its meaning was clear. Athos let out a breath and nodded in reply. Perhaps the last thing d'Artagnan wanted now was to be alone with his thoughts. Athos could understand that.

 

  
He watched as d'Artagnan pulled the rags of his shirt off, shoving the bundle away with something like revulsion. There were fresh scratches on his chest, nothing that needed Aramis' needlework but clearly unpleasant. d'Artagnan's gaze flicked quickly to Athos and Athos just as quickly averted his eyes, realising with a sickening lurch that this was a moment d’Artagnan was likely dreading, checking for damage of an intimate nature and no doubt reliving its cause. There was a rustle of leather as d'Artagnan peeled away breeches, his breathing a little heavier now. Athos closed his eyes, trying desperately not to imagine what had caused the injuries and shame. He'd not help d'Artagnan by dwelling on what was obviously haunting his friend.

 

  
Athos cleared his throat and gathered up the shirt, ripping off what had once been a sleeve to soak in the warm water. d'Artagnan's trembling hand accepted the cloth, Athos noted the fingerprint bruises at d'Artagnan's hips and the fact that he had kept his smallclothes on. Someone, or more likely several someones, had held d'Artagnan down. Athos' fury was roaring again, and it must have shown on his face because d'Artagnan turned away sharply enough to make himself hiss.

 

  
Athos silently cursed himself and shoved his anger down hard – d'Artagnan was hurting and Athos was making things worse. Aramis would be better suited to this task; he knew what people needed to hear and how to be gentle. Athos' gentleness had been burned away many years ago, but he had not been there to prevent d'Artagnan's pain and if d'Artagnan wished for his presence now, Athos would not let him down again.

 

  
His urge to protect d'Artagnan had been present and growing ever since d'Artagnan had first begun shadowing them in their duties and it was not an urge born just from d'Artagnan's youth. But now was not the time for such thoughts or feelings, Athos pushed them down with his anger and focused on d'Artagnan.

 

  
He had finished cleaning out his wounds, though the marks remained, vivid reminders of his experience that would ache outwardly for some time to come, inwardly…Athos' fist clenched again, he was looking forward to Aramis and Porthos' report.

 

  
“You should rest.”

 

  
d'Artagnan nodded and didn’t protest, another indication of just how overwhelmed and discorded he was, nor did he comment on sleeping in Athos’ bed. Instead, he jerkily began to rearrange the bedclothes, attempting to find a way to make himself comfortable. Athos frowned, d'Artagnan’s behaviour was giving him a nagging sensation, born out of the bone-deep knowledge that something was very wrong and all he could do was offer his mere presence. It felt like paltry help indeed.

 

  
“Thank you.”

 

  
d'Artagnan was looking at him now, his eyes full of an experience that he clearly did not wish to talk of yet, though if he did, Athos would force himself to listen, no matter how tortuous such an experience would be. Gazing down at d'Artagnan, curled up under his sheets, exhaustion and pain writ large in his expression, Athos was hit by the urge to push d'Artagnan's hair free of his face.

 

  
To occupy his hands and perhaps even impossibly his thoughts, Athos began unfastening his jacket. He would make a bed for himself on the floor nearby. He had stripped himself down to his smallclothes and was opening drawers to hunt out a blanket when d'Artagnan's voice, stronger now, broke the silence.

 

  
“Athos.”

 

  
Athos turned to see that d'Artagnan had moved to one side of the bed, the space beside him a clear request. Athos froze, he did not want to make d’Artagnan’s pain or fright worse but d'Artagnan was always vehement in his choices and now was no different – his jaw was firm and his gaze was steady, he knew exactly what he wanted, what he needed, and even now, hurt and drowning in despair and shame, he was courageous enough to quietly demand it.

 

  
Athos nodded, finding that all words had stuck in his throat, and checked that he had locked the door. Aramis and Porthos would know not to break in. He slipped under the covers, unable to look away from d'Artagnan who kept to his own side of the bed and did not say another word. Athos listened as his breathing evened out, and kept watch, murmuring quiet nonsense whenever d’Artagnan jerked awake, wild-eyed and shaking. Eventually though, Athos found himself dreaming, his body betraying him to sleep, the evening’s emotional exhaustion too much to resist anymore.

 

  
He didn’t remember his dreams, he refused to.

 

  
When Athos awoke the next morning, the sunlight was painting patterns across the room and he could hear familiar voices close by outside the door. Aramis and Porthos, they had most likely spent the night guarding Athos’ room. Athos felt familiar worn gratitude for his friends, perhaps they could be prevailed upon to procure d’Artagnan some breakfast.

 

  
d’Artagnan, who was lying a little closer now, whose face was pinched almost in a frown but whose countenance in the morning light still made something twist deeply inside Athos, especially when his gaze trailed downward and spied that d’Artagnan had reached for him in the night - d’Artagnan’s hand was pressed to Athos’s side. Athos stared, but he wasn’t dreaming, not anymore. When he looked upwards again, feeling those warm fingers grip his side tightly, he saw that neither was d’Artagnan.

 

  
_-the end_


End file.
